


Carpe Diem

by FleetingDesires



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sibling Incest, ever been so tired you can't think straight?, instant capitulation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27817645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetingDesires/pseuds/FleetingDesires
Summary: "I need to see Mycroft.""I have no instructions from him. Is this a matter of national importance, or is it on a personal matter?""There's hardly any difference tonight, is there? I just need–"A lifetime, and half of the one already lived."15 minutes."
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 65
Kudos: 101





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was antsy. Fidgety. He had fidgeted the entire way back from Musgrave Hall, and now standing in the carnage that was 221B Baker Street, he only felt… numb. John was going around picking up pieces of things, and he was saying things, but Sherlock could process none of it.'

Instead, all he saw were pages of books he had stolen from Mycroft's library and never returned. A chunk of his violin bow wedged under the rubble. A small piece from his (their) copy of Operation. The umbrella stand, tipped sideways at his feet.

Sherlock snapped out of it when John stopped right in front of him. "Hello, Sherlock? Are you alright?"

He blinked once. Twice. "I'm going to see Mycroft."

"Why? If you need a place to sleep tonight, I have a couch you can sleep on. It's not much, I know, but–"

"It isn't that. You should go home. Be with Rosie. I'll deal with…this." He gestured vaguely before turning abruptly on his heels, taking the stairs two at a time before he emerged on the street. Pausing only for a moment to consider, he headed in the direction of Vauxhall Cross, opting to walk.

The familiar sights and sounds of a typical London night soothes his nerves somewhat, though inexplicably his agitation remains. An hour later, he finds himself standing in front of Anthea.

"I need to see Mycroft."

"I have no instructions from him. Is this a matter of national importance, or is it on a personal matter?"

"There's hardly any difference tonight, is there? I just need–" _A lifetime, and half of the one already lived._ "15 minutes."

Anthea taps at her keyboard for a few moments, before she says, "He can't be interrupted right now, but I've given you some time after this meeting. It might be about half a hour."

Sherlock nodded, and paced up and down a couple of times before he managed to rein himself in and forced himself to stop. He spun around, coat slightly billowing, as he planted himself directly in front of Mycroft's door. His toes, scrunched in his shoes, grounds him, while the one hand gripping the opposite wrist behind his back stops him from further fidgeting.

He plays the sentry the whole period he is waiting. Though outwardly still, thoughts and memories whizz around in his mind. A hundred memories of Mycroft catching him when he stumbled; a thousand more where Mycroft made it so he never had the chance to. _I'll always be there for you_. _Your loss would break my heart_. How could he have been so blind? How could he, Sherlock Holmes, supposed genius and master detective, have needed such blatant, obvious evidence as pointing a gun at his brother's head to realise that his loss would break his heart, too?

Oh, but it was far more than that, wasn't it? Loathe as he was to admit it, he could not conceive of living in a world without his brother, who _had_ always been there. Except for the five years when he wasn't, but even those years were marked by the very tangibility of his absence. Was that what he had spent all this time punishing Mycroft for? More than a decade of misery for the both of them for simply growing up and having a life, a career, before he did, or could? There were such gaps in his memories. Whether from his days of heavy drug use, or from his own efforts at deleting them, he wasn't sure.

There was only one thing he was sure of, and he had realised it as Mycroft goaded him into pointing the gun towards him. He had never had the intention to actually shoot it; on the contrary, the action shot a sharp pain through his chest he wasn't entirely sure he managed to conceal. It bore further analysis, at some later time, why it was only the prospect of Mycroft's death, and not his own, that prompted this revelation, or why it is he had such a confidence in Mycroft's invincibility that he never once considered that the life he led must place him in dangerous situations on a regular basis.

One more thing was for certain: he was damned if he acted on it, and damned if he didn't. And since he was a man of action, he rather preferred the former. Their relationship could hardly be worse than it already was, anyway.

❥❥❥

As men ( _no, agents,_ Sherlock corrected himself, observing their attire and the ill-concealed weapons on their persons) filed out of Mycroft's office, Sherlock met their surprised looks with his own inscrutable one, before he saw Mycroft appear behind them. 

They stare each other from across the expanse for a few long moments, a brief look of surprise appearing on Mycroft's face before he wrested his mask back in place. Turning to Anthea, he says, "I do hope you've cleared some time for Sherlock."

"Yes, sir. You have twenty minutes before a teleconference. The details are on your calendar."

"Thank you, Anthea." He turned to Sherlock. "Well, you had better come on in then, brother mine."

With a brisk nod, Sherlock followed him. As he entered, Mycroft was already taking a seat behind his desk, as though he needed the physical barrier between them, or to be in a position of power. Sherlock cocked his head as he tried to understand why Mycroft would feel like he needed either of those things. Mycroft was, infuriatingly, one of the only people he had ever known whom he couldn't read.

They continued to watch each other silently, until with a huff, Mycroft rested his elbows on the table and rubbed at his face. He looked back at Sherlock defeatedly. "Just say whatever it is you came here to say, Sherlock."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in irritation as he started to walk towards him. With every step, though, the mask of the government official melts away for him, as he is once again reminded of… Mycie. Aged ten (upside down as he is dangled by his legs), twelve (running into his arms by the beach), fifteen (doing experiments together which got them both in trouble), seventeen (leaving him behind via fast black car), nineteen (too busy to play), twenty two (too sad, and too different for Sherlock to know how to fix), twenty seven (harder and darker, in all respects). Then came the drug years which blend together, into his thirties, but still he has hazy recollections of Mycroft hauling him from doss house to hospital to rehab, sitting with him through withdrawal after withdrawal. He sees in his mind's eye the slowly receding hairline, the hands once callused by frequent gun use smoothing out again.

Mycroft watched, bemused, as Sherlock crossed the room, passing around the table to stand beside his chair. Instinctively, he turned to face him, brow furrowed. Hesitantly, he asked, "Sherlock?"

After a breath, he replied. "I didn't come here to say anything, or at least not primarily."

"Then what, for god's sake?" Mycroft asked, his patience sapped by the miasma of lethargy, confusion and irritation.

Mycroft barely flinched as Sherlock raised a hand to cup the back of his neck. _What in the blazes…._ Mycroft barely had time to think, opting instead to sit stock-still as Sherlock bent at the waist to kiss him firmly on the mouth, the firm, lingering pressure leaving little doubt as to its intent.

Sherlock withdrew ever so slightly to look at Mycroft, who was looking right back at him in equal parts shock and confusion.

"For the avoidance of doubt, I didn't do that as a brother," Sherlock murmured, holding his gaze for a moment more before he slipped his hand free and walked away. Before he was halfway across the room, Mycroft's brain caught up with him. "Wait," he said, standing up abruptly.

It was Mycroft's turn to approach him, and he came to a stop in front of him, placing himself between Sherlock and the door. "Why?"

"We almost died. Why not?"

Mycroft silently assessed him, his eyes fleeting over Sherlock's face. Finally, he asked, "Since when, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know. Always. Now. Does it matter?"

"No, I suppose not." Mycroft murmured. Tentatively, he reached out, watching his fingers as they ran through his brother's curls. Sherlock leans into it a little, looking at Mycroft intensely. He closed his eyes momentarily as Mycroft's hand brushed his ear, a tingle rushing down his spine.

Mycroft's eyes flashed as he noticed. With fingers still loosely tangled in Sherlock's hair, he whispered, "Kiss me again."

Sherlock closed the distance. This time, Mycroft closed his eyes, and applying his own gentle pressure as he kisses back. Sherlock gasps, as Mycroft tightens the grip on his scalp, causing his blood to leap. Mycroft takes the opportunity to snake his tongue into his mouth, tangling with Sherlock's. 

Mycroft lets out a small groan as Sherlock wraps his arms around his waist, pulling their bodies together. After a few moments Mycroft abruptly breaks off to bury his head in Sherlock's neck as he crushes him in a tighter embrace. "Oh, Sherlock," he murmurs, voice breaking. "How did you know?"

"I didn't," he admitted, rubbing up once against Mycroft involuntarily even as he tried to will his heart to slow down. "But I had nothing to lose. You promised that you'd always be there for me."

Mycroft trailed wet kisses up Sherlock's neck, his jaw, his cheek, before finally planting a gentle kiss on his forehead. Cradling him, he drew back to look into Sherlock's eyes. "I did. And I still do." He kissed Sherlock softly again. "I'm half convinced this is a delirious dream."

"I'm not entirely sure myself. It's quite possible I'll fall asleep as soon as I sit down."

"I have to keep working for at least another couple of hours, but you have no excuse. Stay for awhile. There's a small bedroom next door with an ensuite. Get some rest. It's been a long day, brother mine."

Sherlock nodded. After a moment, he added hesitantly, "Will you join me when you're done?"

Mycroft blinked. "No. Not here." He bit his lip. "But…you could come home with me? I won't be staying long as I'm sure I'll be needed back in the office first thing in the morning, and of course, I'm not implying anything, but as it's the only place I'll be getting any rest, and your apartment is blown to bits, it's the most rational, not to mention comfortable solution. Of course, if you'd rather–"

Sherlock pressed a finger to Mycroft's lips as he rolled his eyes. "Do shut up, brother dear. It sounds perfectly reasonable. I'd love to spend the night in your bed." He grinned cheekily as he watched Mycroft's face flush.

"Hmm. Yes. Well. This is definitely the most surreal night of my existence. Kindly walk through that door where you'll find the bedroom. I will retrieve you in a couple of hours if this isn't, as I suspect, a dream."

Sherlock grinned. "One more kiss, just in case?"

Mycroft leaned in to kiss him thoroughly, even as he manoeuvred them towards the concealed side door in his office. He pressed Sherlock up against it for a few moments before he withdrew, keeping Sherlock in place by his shoulders. "Goodnight, brother," he said firmly, his grip tightening for just a moment before he let them fall.

Sherlock merely nodded, a hand reaching for his lips as he stumbled through the door.

Mycroft sank back into his chair as he stared after him, listening to the door click shut. He rubbed at his lips as he thought. His lips quirked up slightly. _From Holmes killing Holmes to… Holmes loving Holmes_? God, he really needed to get some sleep if he could form such inane thoughts.

Just then, his phone rang. "Yes, Anthea. I'm ready. Sherlock's resting in my suite. Yes. You can patch me through. Thank you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to pick up this little story. :)

It was a quarter past 3 in the morning by the time his phone finally stopped ringing, and Mycroft couldn't help but to succumb to the temptation to rest his head on arms folded upon his desk.

He shut his eyes and took a few breaths. _Just a few seconds, then I'll get Sherlock…_

The next thing he knew was that there was a cool palm gently massaging his neck, fingers playing through his hair at the base of it. Cracking open one eye, he met the equally sleepy visage of his brother, who was knelt next to him.

"Time to get up, brother dear. Anthea's kicking the both of us out of here."

Mycroft groaned softly, before sitting up with a stiff inhale. He tried to blink his brain back into operation as he noticed Anthea at the front of his desk, looking curiously between the two of them. And little wonder, too – Sherlock had scarcely been affectionate towards him before…. Yes, definitely not a dream, then.

Just as certain was the fact that this was not the time, if ever there would be one, to discuss the developments in his private life. Instead, he merely nodded sluggishly. "Thank you, Anthea. Would have been hell on my back to sleep at my desk through the night."

"Can't have that, can we?" Sherlock murmured, his wink concealed from Anthea by the back of his head. Standing up, he pulled Mycroft along with him. "Come on. Anthea's dragged me out of a warm bed. I'd like to get back to one as soon as humanly possible."

"The car is ready. I'll try to give you a late start tomorrow, sir."

"Thank you. Get some rest as well, Anthea." With that, he succumbed to the none-too-gentle prodding of himself towards the door, belatedly noticing that Sherlock had already nicked his jacket from the back of his chair. As they exited, he drew closer to Sherlock to speak quietly. "Have you foreseen some extreme shortage of sleep in the near future I should be warned about?"

"Haven't you?" Sherlock quipped with a sidelong glance at him.

After a pause, Mycroft replied. "Not with any sense of certainty, no."

"Maybe you need more data to achieve a higher degree of confidence. I'll be happy to provide it as soon as I'm back under a blanket."

"You've always had a thing for being cocooned in your sheets."

"And now, in yours as well," Sherlock whispered into his ear before he slid into the car.

Mycroft couldn't stop an amused smile from creeping onto his face as he slid in next to Sherlock, immediately drawing up the privacy screen. He slung an arm around his brother, drawing him closer to him. "I'm not sure how you could know you have a thing for something you've never done before," he mused.

Sherlock twisted and slid to settle more comfortably against Mycroft, until he had a knee against a door, his head tucked into the crook of Mycroft's neck, tugging Mycroft's hand to rest on his torso. He closed his eyes in relaxation even as a small tingle of excitement ran through him at Mycroft's thumb drawing minute circles where it rested. Finally, he replied, "I have yet to _do_ you, as they say, but I have a thing for you, so there you go." He blew a small raspberry into the air.

"You are disconcertingly good at innuendo, though that last one was a little forced. I'm not sure if I should be appalled or impressed."

"Curious wasn't on the list of options?"

"I'm not sure if I want to know."

"Hmm, yes. I think I'll tell you when I can reap the benefits of your jealousy."

Abruptly, Mycroft tilted Sherlock's head up, leaning down to plant a deep kiss as he gripped his jaw firmly. He allowed his tongue to tangle in a slow dance with Sherlock's, claiming every inch of his mouth until he had to pull away to breathe. He looked into Sherlock's eyes. "Would you be so cruel to me?" He murmured.

"Mycroft…" Sherlock breathed, not daring to break away from his gaze as he tried to read the emotions swirling within. He stayed there for a long while as he tried and failed to find the right words, with Mycroft tenderly caressing his cheek. He stayed until his neck began to hurt and he had to sit up to continue looking at Mycroft, though he remained close.Finally, he echoed Mycroft's words back to him. "Since when?"

Mycroft gave him a wry smile, a tinge of self-deprecation seeping though. "For far too long… brother mine."

Sherlock furrowed his brow in a mixture of surprise and confusion. How could he have missed this, too? He took Mycroft's hand, holding it in his lap as they finished the ride to Mycroft's home in silence. He stared at their joined hands, turning Mycroft's hand around so he could study both sides of it. These hands that had held him back from danger as a child, that had shaken him from his drug dazes, that were only ever reached out to him in comfort and safety. He felt a sharp pang of regret as he remembered he took this very wrist to twist behind Mycroft's back, his fingers now drifting across it in a silent apology.

Mycroft's fingers tightened around his. "It's alright, Sherlock."

"It's not." Sherlock pinned him with a look. "Even without all of this, it's not alright."

Mycroft shushed him. "Don't trouble yourself with it. Come on, we're here. Let's go inside."

Sherlock nodded and followed quietly, until they reached the top of the stairs. Tentatively, Mycroft asked, "My room?"

"You couldn't bar me from it if you tried."

Mycroft smiled, striding forward and leading the way into his inner sanctum. Opening the door for Sherlock, he was vaguely amused as his brother couldn't help but to snoop, wandering around the large space and inspecting the various decorative objects scattered about. By the time he turned back to face the room, having shed his various sartorial accoutrements down to his shirt and trousers in his walk-in wardrobe, he found Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed looking… well, unsure, he supposed, but Mycroft couldn't help tilting his head and smiling. He knew he should say something to reassure Sherlock, and he would in a moment, but just now he indulged in the fantasies flashing through his mind. Having Sherlock be physically here, looking delicious and rumpled in his space, in his bed, gave them a far more vivid aspect and made his heart beat a little harder, feeling it pound against his chest.

Sherlock had been worried that for whatever reason Mycroft might have changed his mind or been unsure of sharing his bed tonight, but he relaxed now, as no one who looked as Mycroft did now would kick him out of bed. In fact, it rather seemed as though… "Are you considering getting less sleep tonight, brother dear?"

Mycroft blinked out of his reverie, running a hand through his hair sheepishly, before he huffed a small laugh. "Yes, well, I shouldn't. I'm going to take a shower before you tempt me into it."

"Maybe I'll follow you in."

Mycroft's eyes trailed down Sherlock's body. "Yes. I mean, no." He shook his head firmly, turning back to his wardrobe to retrieve his sleepwear. "Besides, you've already had one at the office."

"Do you ever act irresponsibly?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Mycroft's back, irritated.

"Having you here is perhaps irresponsibility of the highest order." Mycroft turned around, treading towards Sherlock. He bent to place his hands on the bed either side of Sherlock's hips. "As much as you are a singularly exquisite temptation, I have neither the time nor energy to treat you properly right now. So please, brother dear, will you have mercy on my self-control?"

"Oh, alright," Sherlock said, his eyes following the trail his fingers were making against Mycroft's cheek. He placed a hand against Mycroft's chest, firmly shoving him away. "Go, before I change my mind."

***

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep…_

Mycroft pulled the blanket past his head, determined to escape the rude blare of his alarm and catch a few more precious moments of sleep. He had just about managed to ignore the incessant sound when the bed moved.

"Mycroft!" A half-asleep Sherlock growled. "Turn that blasted thing off." This was followed by a swift kick to his shin, causing him to sit up with a start.

"Ow," he grumbled, looking over to the other side of the bed in confusion. Upon spying the mass of dark curls, the pieces finally clicked together. Of course. "Sorry," he said, quickly turning off the alarm. Mycroft buried his head in his hands as he tried to claw his way to full consciousness by calculating how much sleep he could have gotten. Four hours? A little less? Probably.

He had just reached over for his phone when Sherlock moved again, this time to throw an arm over his torso with an insistent weight. "Come back to sleep," he muttered groggily, throwing a knee over his as well.

It was all too easy for Mycroft to succumb to the magnetic pull of his bed, aided by Sherlock's closeness, and so he laid back and allowed his brother to snuggle into his side as he checked on his schedule for the day.

Sherlock's steady breath against his neck acted as some sort of sedative on his senses, and he found himself doing the mental calculations that all tired people must do in the morning and determined that yes, he could spare ten minutes more in bed. He quickly set a timer and drifted back into a pleasant half-asleep state.

All too soon, he was rudely awoken for the second time that morning by the shrill shriek of his phone directly into his ear. Pressing a hand to his chest to prevent his heart from leaping out of it, he turned the blasted sound off, though not before Sherlock, too, sat up next to him with an irritated glare.

"Seriously, Mycroft."

Mycroft shrugged. "Duty calls, as it always does. You can see why I don't do sleepovers."

"Just nick me some earplugs, would you?" Sherlock flopped back on to the bed, pulling the blanket over his head.

Mycroft simply hummed in agreement before he slipped out of bed, tucking in the sheet after him so Sherlock could remain cocooned in its warmth. As he went about his morning routine, he contemplated what that offhand request indicated. Clearly, Sherlock expected to share more mornings with him, but in what capacity? As a lover, certainly, but perhaps more?

He remained deep in his thoughts as he absent-mindedly dressed himself, the routine so deeply ingrained that he looked as put together as usual when he was done.

Mycroft found Sherlock's eyes as he turned from his wardrobe, and was surprised to find them trailing down his body. He smoothed his waistcoat down self-consciously as he drew closer, sitting on the side of the bed.

"I'm sorry for waking you up. You can go back to sleep if you like, no one's coming to the house today."

"Nope. I'm awake now. I may as well go back to Baker Street, see what can be done about it. Check up on Mrs Hudson."

"Of course. She should have homeowners' insurance, but anything that it doesn't cover, the Holmes family trust will. There's just one more thing." Mycroft paused. "We'll have to tell Mummy and Father about Eurus."

Sherlock sat up. "Why? She's back in Sherrinford, and you're working to keep her there, aren't you?"

"Yes, but… if she could escape once, she could conceivably do it again. We'll need to warn them against her, just in case she does and decides to involve them in her plans the next time."

"Saying that they're not going to like it is an understatement."

"They're not going to like this either, if they ever find out about it." Mycroft gestured between them. "Whatever this is, anyway, which is a conversation we don't have time for this morning. They will be furious with me regardless, so there's not much difference. At least they will be prepared for Eurus. I won't make the same mistake again."

Sherlock considered this. Finally, he said, "I won't deny that knowing what she looked like might have made a difference, though in all other respects she was a flawless actor. If she were to attempt something again, it's likely she'll change her face this time. I'm not sure how much utility there will be in telling our parents, who are utterly inexperienced in observation, much less with prosthetic makeup."

"Maybe not, but just as you deserved to know that you had a sister and what had happened to her, so too do they deserve to know about her. Don't you think?"

"Yes. Alright. I want to be there when you tell them."

"Whatever for? You can hardly stand to be in the same house as them even when they're in an amiable mood."

"Brother mine. Do you expect me to let you fend for yourself against them?"

"You don't have to defend me."

"I really do. If not for you, then for me. Besides, as it's family business, I should be there, or so you're always telling me."

"Oh, very well then. Um." Mycroft chewed on his bottom lip. "Would you have dinner with me on Saturday?"

Sherlock grinned. "Mycroft Holmes, are you asking me out on a date?"

"Not if you don't want it to be."

"What will you be doing on Saturday if I say yes?" Sherlock moved closer, dropping his voice to a murmur.

Mycroft dipped his gaze to Sherlock's lips, unconsciously licking his own. "Fretting up a storm, I'd imagine."

Sherlock captured his lips, nibbling on his bottom lip teasingly before he released him. "See you on Saturday, then, brother mine."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ratings upgrade. ;)

Mycroft's week flew by in a stressful blur, until he lowered himself into the bath at the end of it for a well-deserved soak. With the hot water soaking into his skin, he let all his thoughts and worries of Eurus and Sherrinford drift away with the perfumes in the air. As he laid back, closing his eyes, thoughts of Sherlock and his weekend started to creep in. He had made reservations himself for the first time in years, the host at his favourite restaurant audibly shocked to hear his voice on the other end of the line. After all, Anthea would only ask too many questions, if not out loud then certainly with her eyes. While a dinner for two wasn't very out of the ordinary on his calendar, she would know he wouldn't have had time to meet anyone recently. Besides, it was a rare thing for him to take his dates to restaurants like this.

When thoughts of his diary drifted to the other matters on his plate, he opened his eyes, crossed with himself. Shaking his head, he determinedly put them aside as he stepped out of the bath, focusing instead on the softness of his favourite robe, wrapping it extra tight around him to feel pleasantly swaddled in the material. All thoughts of a quiet night vanished when he emerged into his bedroom to find Sherlock in his bed, shirt undone to his navel, overnight bag in a corner.

"What are you doing here?" He exclaimed in surprise.

"I said I'd see you on Saturday." He indicated the clock on the bedside table, which read that it was sometime past midnight. "I was starting to wonder if you'd fallen asleep in the bath."

"It was a near thing." Mycroft looked at his pruny fingers, before he narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. "I'm not sure how I feel about you breaking into my house again. Did you at least put the security back on?"

"Nope." Sherlock popped his lips, grinning insouciantly. "I did lock the bedroom door, though."

Mycroft gave him an exasperated eye roll. "So someone could nick my things, but it's alright because at least we'll have a five-second warning before they storm into the bedroom?"

"Exactly." Sherlock leapt off the bed, striding over to Mycroft. He gripped onto the lapels of his bathrobe to pull him in, running his nose along Mycroft's jaw. Hmm, lavender with a hint of sandalwood. Delicious, even as his stubble abraded his nose a little. Sherlock wondered how it would feel elsewhere. "Time enough to disentangle," he whispered into Mycroft's ear.

"Tempting," Mycroft murmured, before he straightened. A man had priorities that would not be so easily waylaid. "But not enough to stop me thinking about waking up tomorrow morning to find my walls stripped bare."

Sherlock let his hands drop as he took half a step back. "Why, brother dear, are you asking to be seduced? With one move, I can have you forgetting about everything but me. I don't even have to touch you. Are you sure you want to be quite so ornery?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow in challenge.

Conscious of his relative state of undress, and a sign of arousal that would imminently become obvious, Mycroft crossed his hands in front of him. Feigning nonchalance, he quirked an eyebrow in response. "I'd like to see you try. And if you fail, _you_ will venture into the cold house and set the security."

"Neither of us is leaving the bedroom," Sherlock announced confidently. Locking his gaze to Mycroft's, he licked his lips and slowly sank to his knees. After a moment of stillness from them both, he blew gently on Mycroft's hands. "Well?"

Mycroft couldn't have moved from where he stood if his life depended on it. Finally, he buried a hand in Sherlock's curls. "Well played, brother mine," he said, voice turned husky. "But I think you should at least kiss me first."

"Where?" He leaned forward to kiss Mycroft's hand, which was now doing little to conceal the tent in his robe. He pushed against it with his next kiss. "Will that do? Kissing your hand is quite gentlemanly."

Mycroft gently tugged at Sherlock's hair. "No. Come up here, please."

Sherlock pouted before he complied. Before he could say a word, he found himself caught in a strong embrace, and it was all he could do to hold on and let Mycroft kiss him into a frenzy.

Mycroft held him close, making small, teasing licks into his mouth as he pressed up against him, distracting him with the feel of his erection against his hip, the rasp of his stubble against his chin, and busy fingers in his hair. Mycroft’s hand travelled down his chest to tweak a nipple, humming in approval when Sherlock gasped. Its downward journey continued, quickly tugging out his shirttails before its warmth seared itself on Sherlock’s skin.

With Sherlock tugging and Mycroft pushing, Sherlock soon hit the bed with the back of his knees. He pushed Mycroft away with an effort, shedding his shirt quickly as Mycroft watched with darkened eyes. His expression turned as he traced over the small, silvered lines scattered about his body, before he covered the bullet scar below his heart with his hand.

Without a word, he replaced it with his lips, lingering there for but a moment before he kissed another scar, and another, and yet another. Mycroft knelt, showering his body with worshipful kisses until Sherlock could take it no longer. "Come back to me, brother mine," he said, smoothing away the creases on Mycroft's forehead. He met Mycroft's troubled gaze. "Let the past stay dead and gone."

Mycroft's eyes flickered between his as Sherlock stroked his hair. "I worry about you. Constantly. I seem to be unable to stop."

Sherlock sat, bringing their faces close. "I can't make any promises about the future, but right now, I'm fine. I'm alive, and so are you." Holding Mycroft's face in his hands, he planted soft kisses all around his face, hoping they were enough to convey what he didn't have the words to say: the depth of his affection, his _sentiment_ , that he had spent all his life denying that he was capable of. He planted a final soft kiss on Mycroft's lips, before he withdrew to watch Mycroft's eyes flutter open lazily.

"Now, get in bed. I will be right back." He turned back a corner of the blanket with a flourish, before he moved towards the bedroom door.

"What? Where are you going?"

"Securing our survival for another night," he said, not bothering to break his stride.

Mycroft was too used to his brother's mercurial moods to stay unsettled for long. Quickly donning a pair of pyjama pants, he sank into his bed, his head propped up by a mountain of pillows.

He was so supremely comfortable that he had almost fallen asleep when Sherlock came back to the bedroom, quickly shedding his coat beside the bed before he stopped in his tracks. He blinked.

"Are you naked under there?" Sherlock asked stupidly.

Mycroft looked down at himself. With the sheet draped over his torso, he could see why Sherlock leapt to that conclusion. "Um, no. Do you think I could be that presumptuous?"

"I fail to see how it could be presumptuous in light of what we were doing before." Sherlock moved to start discarding the rest of his clothing. "In fact, I think it's the least you could do after I've gone to set your precious security."

"And…" Mycroft trailed off, his mouth running dry as Sherlock carelessly pushed his trousers off his hips and stepped out of them, now clad only in simple grey boxer briefs. "Are you meaning to do me another favour?"

Sherlock smirked as Mycroft's eyes finally made it back to his. "Why don't you come here and take what you want instead?"

Mycroft thought for a moment, before he reached out to tug on Sherlock's arm until he tumbled into bed next to him. He smoothed the curls back from Sherlock's face, placing a soft kiss against his lips. "There. I have everything I want."

"Just a kiss?"

"It will never be ' _just_ ' anything with you, brother mine."

"Well, I want more." Sherlock pulled Mycroft's lips back to his, kissing him until his mind emptied of everything but Mycroft and his soft lips, the warmth of his body seeping through his skin and setting it on fire. Goosebumps rose on Mycroft's flesh as he trailed his fingers down his spine and over his back. Impatient, he pushed Mycroft to his back, entangling their legs together as he leaned over him.

Mycroft held him tentatively as Sherlock looked down upon him, his brother's slender fingers winding into the fur on his chest, tugging at it before he whispered them over a nipple. Mycroft's hold tightened on him.

Sherlock's eyes flashed. He dipped his head to lick at Mycroft's tripping pulse as he pinched his nipple lightly, before moving his mouth over it as he switched his hand to tease at his other nipple. As he plucked and licked and teased, Mycroft couldn't help but to moan softly, caressing Sherlock's body in a subtle encouragement, his hips bucking in search of friction and the pleasure that was being bestowed on other parts of his body.

Sherlock hummed in response, thrusting his own erection against Mycroft's hip. He let his hand trail down Mycroft's body until his fingers encountered a waistband, where they dipped in ever so slightly and teased, back and forth under the fabric divide, careful not to venture too closely to where he knew Mycroft most wanted to be touched, delighting in his groan.

"Still have everything that you want, brother mine?" he murmured.

"No," Mycroft replied breathlessly, locking his gaze to Sherlock's. "I never did."

Sherlock plucked at his drawstrings, slowly unravelling it. "Then tell me what you want."

"I want…" Mycroft struggled for a moment. "I want everything you'll give to me."

"Then take this off, and let me show you there's nothing you could want that I wouldn't want to give." He did away with his own pants as Mycroft moved to comply, before he grinned widely as he slithered down Mycroft's body. "Oh, I've been teasing you all night with my mouth. I think I'll start there, hmm?"

Mycroft groaned, letting his head fall back as he felt Sherlock's lips on him, his tongue tracing a vein until he arrived at the tip, suckling teasingly as a hand moved to play with his ballsack. As Sherlock applied himself, taking more of Mycroft into his mouth, Mycroft willed himself to look, entangling his fingers into Sherlock's hair as he watched Sherlock's lips stretch around him.

He hummed and bit his lip in pleasure as Sherlock quickly found the rhythm that he liked, gasping as he felt his cock hit the back of his throat repeatedly until he managed to take all of Mycroft's sizeable length inside him, swallowing around him and making it even harder for Mycroft to resist bucking his hips. He could hold out no longer as he felt a finger tease at his lower entrance, pushing its way in, eased by the spit dribbling from Sherlock's ministrations.

Mycroft's eyes rolled into the back of his head as Sherlock moaned around him, moved on him and deeper in him, until with a forcible tug on his hair, Mycroft pulled Sherlock's mouth away. Sherlock made a noise of protest, sending his finger deeper into Mycroft in retaliation.

Mycroft took a few moments to catch his breath and fight past the pleasure once more. "You're altogether too good at that, but right now I'd like for you to replace your finger with something rather more substantial, if you don't mind."

Sherlock wiped the spit off of his face with a satisfied smirk as he curled his finger in Mycroft. "Finally, the man asks for what he wants. And all I had to do was overwhelm your senses. You're going to have to supply me with lube if you want me to fuck you, Mycroft."

"There's no need to be crude, brother dear." He tossed the bottle towards him.

"I don't know how you can lecture me while my finger's up your arse," Sherlock retorted, even as he withdrew it to pile pillows beneath Mycroft's hips. Applying lube liberally to his fingers, he pushed into Mycroft once more, looking keenly for signs of discomfort. "Besides, what else would you have me call this?" He continued, as he inserted a second finger and slowly stretched his brother.

"I don't know that intercourse between us could ever be reduced to something as banal as 'fucking'. Oh _God_ , Sherlock," he groaned suddenly. Sherlock smirked as he continued to rub at his prostate. Quickly applying more lube, he inserted a third finger, now preparing him in earnest as his own desire was getting desparate as he watched his fingers moving in and out of Mycroft.

Sherlock could only hope that he had done enough, as he reduced Mycroft to a litany of _pleases_. He inhaled sharply as he put a hand on himself to coat his cock in more lube, obtaining a measure of relief before he opened his eyes again to meet Mycroft's.

He positioned himself to nudge at Mycroft's entrance with his cock, his hands gripping firmly at Mycroft's thighs. Sherlock fought himself to go slowly, distracting himself from the hot tightness of it all by absorbing all the little details of Mycroft's experience: his eyes flitted over curled toes, a bitten lip, fluttering eyelashes, and the visible pounding of Mycroft's heart in his chest. Somehow, one of his hands had found Mycroft's, and they held on to each other as Sherlock took him, his own heart set to racing as he slid in fully.

After a few breathless moments, Mycroft's grip on him relaxed as his eyes opened. Sherlock gave him a soft smile. "Alright?" He asked.

"Yes." He nodded. "I believe you can move now."

Sherlock did so, tentatively, then no more words were exchanged as he built a rhythm to pleasure them both. He smirked when he discovered just how flexible Mycroft could be, as he bent forward to kiss Mycroft, and stayed there to watch Mycroft as he moved, absorbing his moans as he fed him his own.

He grinned and pounded harder into Mycroft when he gasped, clutching onto his shoulder, leaning back for greater leverage as he drove them both to the edge, Mycroft's moans growing louder and driving his own lust. Finally he put a hand on Mycroft's cock, stroking him in the same rhythm, still keeping a tenuous grip on his control until all Mycroft could say was _Lock_ and _please_ and _God!_.

"Open your eyes, Mycroft," he growled, as he felt his control slipping. "Look at me." He pounded into him harder, somehow retaining enough sense to replace his hand with Mycroft's. _Come_ , he mouthed, as Mycroft's gaze on him sent him flying over the edge, feeling Mycroft follow him soon after as his arse tightened around him, groaning as it prolonged his own orgasm.

Coming back to himself, Sherlock opened his eyes blearily to see Mycroft doing the same. Somewhat incredulously, he looked at the bruises he had left on Mycroft's skin, rubbing at them apologetically before he withdrew himself from Mycroft, leaning forward to kiss him and surprising himself by doing so tenderly.

"I didn't think it would be like this," he said into Mycroft's neck.

"No, me either." Mycroft lazily stroked Sherlock's back as he slowly lowered his legs. Damn, but he was going to pay for that in the morning. Worth it. His hand stilled as a thought occurred to him. "Regretting it already?"

Sherlock made a noise of protest. "Don't irritate me now, brother mine. Of course not." He nudged Mycroft's arm to continue his soothing movements across his back. Gradually, he slid down to lie next to Mycroft instead, opening his eyes to meet his brother's clear, green gaze. "This all just seems…very fast."

"Considering you only just kissed me in my office earlier this week, I would say so, yes. But it can be as fast or as slow as you like. I wouldn't pressure you for anything."

"I don't mean the physical aspect of it, Mycroft."

Mycroft knew that Sherlock could feel his pulse pick up speed, but he was helpless to control it anyway. Instead, he pressed Sherlock closer to him, placing a kiss on his forehead. "Then maybe it is fast, or maybe it's just the endorphins talking. Either way, if you could exert any control over it, you would be a better man than me."

"You're no help at all."

"Absolutely none," Mycroft agreed. "But would it make you feel better if I said you were just playing catch up?"

"I don't know if it makes me feel better, or worse."

"Please don't feel worse. You weren't to know." He kissed Sherlock again. "Now, enough chat. We've got to clean up before the mess sets in."

Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes and played dead, until Mycroft leaned over to whisper in his ear. "Help, and you'll be rewarded handsomely. You're not the only one with a talented mouth."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys go on a date.

Mycroft was having a very nice dream, despite the fact that he was in his office. A random assortment of people were across from his desk: the Prime Minister, Lady Smallwood, an agent under his command, and the ambassador from India.

They were all talking at once about different things that Mycroft failed to grasp the threads of, their voices blending in the background as his focus was diverted to the warm mouth currently wrapping itself around his cock under the desk. As he was coaxed to full hardness, he snuck his hand into a bed of messy hair. He didn't have to look to know who it was. He returned his attention, marginally, to the crowd in front of him. With his hand guiding the blowjob he was currently getting, he confidently informed the crowd in front of him that they were all to fuck off with their problems and not to come back until they managed to use all the brain cells that nature had seen fit to provide them with. Damn, but that felt _almost_ as good as what Sherlock was doing right now.

One by one, they all disappeared from his dream, until he was free to groan at Sherlock's expertise. He appreciated the view of Sherlock's red lips tight around him, his cock jutting out from his open flies as he built a steady rhythm to bring Mycroft to satisfaction. Mycroft hummed before he began talking to Sherlock. It was heady to say things that he would never say out loud, to have Sherlock moan at his words, a hand busy on himself.

_You're a very naughty boy, Sherlock, blowing me while I'm at work._

_Do you like having my cock in your mouth? Knowing that I'm hard for you?_

_I'll make you mine, and only mine. No one else gets to have this mouth._

_Take all of it, Sherlock. Yes, just like that._

_I want to come down your beautiful throat, and you're going to love it, aren't you? You fucking glorious creature._

He was hurled into consciousness as he came, but instead of a wet belly as he was expecting, he found his hands in Sherlock's hair as he thrust his cock into him, pulsing in Sherlock's throat. He groaned loudly as Sherlock gagged and swallowed around him, his fantasy cast into vivid three-dimensional colour and sensation. He gasped and panted, barely knowing where he was, and as the orgasm left him he came to his senses enough to quickly release Sherlock, an apology drifting out weakly from his lips.

Sherlock released him, his hand flying over his own cock, the tip glistening wet as he groaned, eyes dark. Mycroft acted on his only thought, flipping Sherlock over to reverse their positions. He held down Sherlock's forearms as his mouth greedily descended on him. He felt Sherlock straining against his hold, panting harshly, and it wasn't long before Sherlock came as well, thrusting into his mouth. He drank him down, tongue moving against a vein as Sherlock whimpered, until Sherlock stopped straining, his chest rising and falling. "Good god, Mycroft," he groaned.

Mycroft crawled up his body to find his lips, exchanging languid kisses, their mutual flavours intermingling on their tongues in a heady exchange. Sherlock mewled as he moved away. "That was quite possibly the best morning of my life," Mycroft murmured, voice all sleepy and rough. "Do you have any idea how many times I've dreamed of that? And then to find you actually there, with your mouth hot and wet around me…" Mycroft dipped his head with a groan, sinking his teeth lightly into the flesh of Sherlock's chest. "Indescribable. Though I am sorry for gagging you."

Sherlock smirked. "I enjoyed your lack of control, brother mine." He stretched lazily, completely relaxed after the morning's activities. "I hope to inspire it more often."

Mycroft chuckled, dipping his head for another kiss. "Have mercy on me. My middle-aged heart might not be able to take it."

"A fine way to go." He grinned.

"Completely depraved, you mean."

"What's wrong with that? Besides, neither one of us would have a job if there wasn't any."

"Fair point." He continued to nibble on Sherlock like a tasty treat, amusing both of them in the process.

"I thought I'd given you your breakfast already," Sherlock commented, as he stroked Mycroft's hair lazily.

"Ugh. Must you?"

Sherlock pretended to ponder the question. "Yes. Can we stay here all day?"

"No. We're supposed to have a date today, and that consists of more than just sex. Unless it's all you want me for."

"Is that likely when I agreed to the date in the first place?"

"I agree that it seems rather counterintuitive, but I thought I'd give you a chance to change your mind."

"I can change my own mind without your nudging, as you well know. Now stop this before you spoil my morning."

Mycroft sighed. "I'm sorry." He kissed him gently. "Well, seeing as I've got you all day now, do you want to do something more than dinner?"

"That rather depends on what you have in mind."

"I thought we could drive down to Winchester and just wander about. There's this bookshop I've been meaning to visit," Mycroft said with a boyish air around him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Are there any other redeeming features of Winchester?"

"I have no idea. Come explore it with me."

"Just like old times, except now you're the one asking." Sherlock smiled softly. "Alright, fine."

————

Sherlock gaped at the sight in front of him. " _This_ is your car?" He stared at the silver beauty. While he knew absolutely nothing about cars except it got him where he wanted to go, this one looked as though it came straight out of a '60s action film, and was lovingly preserved.

Mycroft gave the classic Gullwing a fond pat before he opened the passenger side door for Sherlock. He watched gleefully as Sherlock's eyes widened when the door swung upwards, instead of sideways. "Yup," he said, popping his lips in Sherlock's signature style.

"When did you buy this, and how have I never known you even _had_ a garage?"

"About five years ago, and because I didn't _want_ you to know. Besides, I never drive it in London's gridlock. What would be the point?" He moved aside as Sherlock got in, allowing him to close the door himself before getting into the car as well.

Mycroft's face lit up as the car started with a purr. As he pulled out of the garage, Sherlock asked, "How often do you actually get to drive this thing?"

"Well, with my work, you know. Not very often. Once or twice a year I take a long drive to the country."

"I might have jumped you a lot sooner if I'd known."

"More likely, you'd have trashed it for some little slight you had perceived me to do to you."

"No, definitely jumped. Can I drive back?"

Mycroft voiced filled with sheer horror. "Absolutely not."

"Hmm, we'll see," Sherlock said vaguely.

They fell into a comfortable silence, and Mycroft put the radio on a low volume to settle in for the short drive. As soon as Mycroft settled the car into a cruising speed, he found his hand tugged off the gearshift to be held in Sherlock's lap. He blushed, looking over at him in surprise to find that Sherlock had his gaze fixed out the window. With a soft smile, he returned his attention to the road, turning his hand over to lace their fingers together.

The experience was wholly new to Mycroft and he suspected, to his brother as well. He felt like a teen again, feeling his heart beat against his chest as he cautiously held hands with the boy he liked. It was admittedly a little strange considering the very much more explicit things they had done, but then, this was a different sort of intimacy; the sort that could linger and come to take up residence in one's soul, the sort that one could quickly get used to, the sort that engendered the phrase _caring is not an advantage_. Given his extant feelings, there wasn't much more harm that could be done by revelling in this newfound closeness.

Mycroft squeezed Sherlock's hand lightly, continuing to drive in silence. As they turned off the freeway, Mycroft hesitated for a split second before he moved their joined hands to sit atop his thigh, releasing Sherlock to operate the gearshift.

———

Before long, they found themselves sat across a table from each other for a late lunch, having wandered around the city. They had been drawn in by the promise of tacos and beer, and ordered accordingly. They both took several large sips from their glasses before Sherlock spoke.

"So, Mycroft, I believe part of a first date is getting to know the other person." Mycroft furrows his brow in confusion. Sherlock continued, playing aimlessly with his own fingers under the table. "I…know you only in relation to me."

Mycroft looked at him for a moment, smiling wistfully. "What do you imagine I might be hiding that you wouldn't already know?"

"You hid the fact that you like cars pretty well."

"I don't like _cars_ , I like that particular one. It looks good, runs well, and will keep its value." Mycroft shrugged. He thought for several long moments. "Really, the most exciting things about me are classified."

"Surely I have high enough clearance for some of them."

"Yes, but everyone else in this place doesn't. Well, how about this one, then. I secretly enjoy listening to pop music."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up as he laughed. " _What?_ "

"Yes. Please don't ask me anymore. I also have a stash of t-shirts in my closet for when I am feeling absolutely slovenly."

"Now you're just telling me things you have in common with other people."

"Does it not interest you to learn that in certain respects I am perfectly average?"

"I thought the point of this exercise was to impress."

"Sherlock… I must confess that there are very few things in my life aside from you, my hobbies, and my work that I am particularly concerned with."

Sherlock softened, considering this. "I don't know if there's anything I can tell you that you don't already know, either."

"Well, what about future plans, then? After the whole mess at….with our sister?"

"I'm going to ask John to stop blogging about my cases, for a start." He scrunched up his face. "At some point it stopped being fun."

"Yes, one can only live on the line between life and death for so long before it gets tiring," Mycroft said, his gaze drifting off for a moment before it focused on Sherlock again.

"And I'll need to speak to Molly soon, if she'll see me." He sighed. "But I still need my puzzles, so I don't think anything else is likely to change much. How about you?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Much the same. I'd be bored to death without my work within a week. But it's been decided that control of… the facility will be handed off once I've put in the appropriate security measures. Clearly the conflict of interest was too much for me to take on and it caused blind spots in my judgment."

"You shouldn't blame yourself too much, Mycroft. Even the smartest person can get it wrong sometimes. Just look at Eurus."

Mycroft smiled wryly. "Thanks for that. You are right, I suppose, but I failed you. I hadn't anticipated everything that Moriary could do. Would do. Or even the extent of Eurus' obsession with you."

"Frankly, it's amazing that in over 30 years this is your first mistake, so I'll give you a pass." Sherlock took a sip of his beer, waving his fingers in the Catholic sign of absolution.

Mycroft's eyes widened a little, staring at Sherlock in shock. He furrowed his brow as his gaze trailed away to look at his hands.

"…Mycroft?" Sherlock said, concerned.

In the split second that Mycroft looked at him, Sherlock saw an unmistakeable glaze in his eyes. Abruptly, Mycroft got up, making a beeline to the restroom and slamming into a stall. Sitting on a closed seat, Mycroft held his face in his hands before he allowed his tears to run free. The weight of 20 years of fighting had suddenly become too much to bear – the petty feuds, constant oneupmanship, desperate fights to get closer even as he was being pushed away. Decades of asking himself what else he could have done, what _better_ he could have done by his brother, of trying to be the perfect big brother but somehow, always feeling like he'd fallen short by a country mile. An endless barrage of memories assault his mind, everything from the first time he came home from university to a stony-faced Sherlock, to the times he had sat in a crummy bedsit nursing Sherlock through another drug withdrawal, to his utter disbelief at realising he had enabled Eurus and Moriarty to turn their lives around.

He gave himself a few minutes to gather himself, before he wiped at his face, sniffling. He waited until he heard that there was no more sounds coming from outside his stall before he emerged, but to no great surprise, he found that Sherlock was leaned against the sinks, watching him.

Mycroft said nothing as he splashed water on his face, satisfied that it worked to calm the redness and puffiness of his eyes. When he had wiped it dry, Sherlock slung an arm around him. He watched in the mirror as Sherlock leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek before meeting his reflected gaze. "Let's go. More city to explore," Sherlock said softly.

As soon as they make it on to the street, Mycroft grabbed him in a tight hug, uncaring for once if anyone cared to look on. After a moment, Sherlock said, "Are you going to be weepy every time I say something nice? That's not going to encourage me to do it more."

Mycroft smiled into his shoulder before he pulled back. "I hope not. I just didn't know you felt that way. With all our arguments, and–"

"Ssh." Sherlock pressed a finger to his lips. "As much as I hate to admit it, you were right. It was all childish, and petty, and I've been punishing you for leaving me for too long."

"I had no choice, not then."

"I know. Come on." He hooked his arm through Mycroft's to drag him along, only releasing him when he was satisfied that his brother would be propelled by his own will to follow.

By silent agreement, they gravitated towards the river they had come across earlier in the day, and simply strolled along it as the sun's rays sparkled on the water and cast a golden light across the bank. They don't hold hands, but they do talk more, about everything that they had missed in each other's lives. Mycroft broke the Official Secrets Act a few times, while Sherlock revealed secrets that had his brother fearing for the colour of his hair. Maybe it's lovers getting to know one another, or maybe it's long-estranged brothers finally mending the bridges burnt so long ago. Who can say, when they're really one and the same? Somehow, their arms find their way around one another as they talk and laugh, both needing the physical contact to convince themselves of the reality of the situation.

As they somehow found themselves on familiar ground, nearing where they had parked, Sherlock asked, "Oh, and why in the hell did you buy such a nice car when you never get to drive it?"

"There's really little point in having money if you're not going to spend it. And I hadn't been, so…" He shrugged. "Can't a man have his whims?"

"Please, Mycroft. Let me drive it back. Mrs Hudson lets me drive hers."

Mycroft tried to stifle his horrified expression. "It's right hand drive, Sherlock. Besides, does she know you take her car out on joyrides?"

"She knows when I come back. And I can't imagine right-hand drive to be much different."

Mycroft tried a different tack as he scrambled for a reason, any reason he could to dissuade Sherlock. "My dear, I love you, but do you know how much it cost? It was over £700,000!"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, and simply stared at him. Mycroft babbled on, knowing that it was a weak argument. "I'd buy you your own car. One to outdo Mrs Hudson's. How about that instead? You could put, I don't know, arrested criminals in the boot. Unlike mine, which can barely fit an overnight bag." Mycroft pinched his nose bridge as Sherlock remained silent. "That was the wrong thing to say. Of course I don't mean–"

"Shut up, Mycroft." Sherlock interrupted. He looked around quickly before he found an alley to suit his purposes, dragging his brother along.

"What? What did I say? Oh God." Mycroft picked up his pace to prevent his shoes from scuffing along the pavement as Sherlock tugged at him, his mind still occupied with the images of his beloved car in a tangled wreck. He looked worriedly as Sherlock pulled him deep into a narrow alley.

Sherlock pushed Mycroft against the closest wall, holding him in place with his own body and a firm hold on his head to kiss him. Hard. When they finally separate, Mycroft simply opened his eyes, dazed and confused. "Huh?" he said stupidly.

"You said you loved me," Sherlock accused.

Mycroft's confusion faded as he rewound the conversation in his mind. He relaxed slightly, though he was still a little hesitant. "Yes, I did rather blurt that out, didn't I?"

"Well, what am I supposed to say to that?" Sherlock asked. Unlike the first time he uttered those words, it came out less accusatory and more unsure.

Mycroft paused for a moment, tilting his head as he swept some curls away from Sherlock's face. He ran his thumb over his cheek before kissing him lightly. "Absolutely nothing. I didn't mean to put you on the spot."

Sherlock huffed, shooting him an irritated glare before he leaned in to kiss him again, silently peppering kisses on his lips, his cheeks, down to his jaw and his neck until he rested his head on Mycroft's shoulder.

Mycroft ran his hands across Sherlock's body, hoping that he had understood what Sherlock wouldn't say. He turned slightly to bury his face in Sherlock's hair as he held him, pressing a kiss every now and then.

"Shall I take you home?" Mycroft finally murmured.

Sherlock nodded, trailing kisses back to meet Mycroft's lips before he stepped away. "And step on it, brother mine. I need you where we won't be interrupted."

——

Mycroft did as he was bid, making the journey back to London faster than the reverse they had driven that morning. Just as they entered the city limits of London, however, Sherlock's phone rang shrilly, breaking the silent anticipation in the car.

Sherlock answered the phone, the irritation in his voice coming through loud and clear to Mycroft's ears. "Can I have a day off, Inspector Lestrade?"

"Hello to you too, Sherlock. Listen, you know I wouldn't call unless it was important. I'm pretty sure I'm currently looking at a secret squirrel here, and he did not die in his sleep. I'd owe you one if you can help me wrap this up nice and quickly, before your brother comes swooping down on me."

As he talked, Mycroft's phone rang in its cradle as well. Sherlock glanced over and sighed. Looks like his plans for the evening were permanently shelved. "Too late. Text me the address."

"Okay. Thanks, Sherlock, really. I know it hasn't been a good week. Wait, what do you mean, 'too late'?"

Sherlock hung up without answering, waiting for Mycroft to finish his call. The car swung away from the direction of Mycroft's house, its operator no less displeased than its passenger.

"Why can't people die at more convenient times? I assume we're being summoned to the same crime scene." Mycroft grumbled, as he took off his handsfree earpiece.

"Probably, unless Lestrade can be at two crime scenes at once. At least we're both here. Between us, we can hope for a swift conclusion."

"For you, maybe, but now I have to wrangle Scotland Yard and my team while wearing _jeans_." He wrinkled his nose.

A thought came to Sherlock. "Do any of them know you spend your money on expensive cars?"

Mycroft groaned. "Just the one, brother mine. And they have no possible reason to know this about me. Fantastic."

"You're painting quite the picture of a rich bastard right now, aren't you?"

"Yes, with a Loro Piana jumper, hot car, and an even hotter boy toy in the seat next to me." He smirked as Sherlock punched him in the arm. "Well, there's not much I can do about it at this point except to try and hide the car."

Unfortunately for Mycroft, by the time they got there, there wasn't much choice but to park in full view of the police line or one of them would have trouble getting out of the car. Their doors swung up at the same time, the brothers untangling their legs from their seats. It escaped neither man's attention that they were causing quite a spectacle, but there was nothing to be done for it.

As they walked in pace together towards the crime scene, Mycroft murmured, "Once more into the breach we go, brother mine."

"Let's try and get some of our evening back at least, shall we?"

With a determined nod, they both set forth, heading straight for Lestrade, who had as yet not seen them, and with no idea that his day was about to get a lot more torturous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I'm going to give Mycroft a swanky car, there might as well be some plot use to it. ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short ficlet because... I wanted to get my [word count to read 123,456](https://fleetingdesires.tumblr.com/post/642348586134274048/i-really-wrote-561-words-just-to-see-this) 😂 There are definitely worse reasons for writing.

"Ow!" Lestrade complained as he was elbowed in his side. He glared at his lieutenant. "What the hell, Donovan?"

She inclined her head towards the pair of lanky, well-dressed men currently making a beeline towards them. "You've got a two-for-one special on freaks today."

"Don't call him that," he replied automatically, the refrain well worn by now. Turning around, he barely managed to keep his jaw from hanging open at the sight of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes co-existing peacefully, but when he noticed the gleaming silver classic car behind them, he gave up trying. For a wild moment he had the thought that if he were a cartoon character, his pupils would definitely have turned into hearts.

Sadly, he only had a few seconds to ogle the car before his view was obstructed by the harbingers of paperwork. Refocusing his attention, he greeted them. "Hello, Mr Holmes. Sherlock." Unable to help himself, he added, "That yours?" He nodded to the car.

Mycroft sighed deeply as Sherlock smirked. "Yes, Detective Inspector. I do apologise for intruding on your crime scene, but I'm afraid I will have to take control of it. National security reasons, you understand."

"Yeah, I had a feeling. You have the paperwork for me?"

"My assistant informs me that it has been delivered to you by email. My team will be here shortly."

"Can we go in now?" Sherlock interjected. "I can't be standing around all day."

Lestrade gave both of them a once-over. "Yeah, sure." He handed over the folder of papers he was holding to Mycroft before gesturing awkwardly to his clothing. "The two of you probably want to get into protective gear first, though."

"Ah, brother dear. Your sartorial problem is solved. Come on then."

Mycroft resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose. He was just about to refuse to enter the crime scene when he remembered that the point of it was to get the matter wrapped up quickly. Sighing to himself, he trailed behind Sherlock who was already headed for the forensics van.

* * *

Half an hour found them back at the forensics van, stripping off their gear as Anthea walked up. "My apologies for the delay sir, there was a slight problem with organising the team."

"It's not a problem," Mycroft replied distractedly, for the moment more focused on removing the foul plasticky overall without soiling his clothes. Once done, he looked up to see both Anthea and Sherlock regarding him with repressed laughter. "Oh, shut up. I've emailed you the instructions for investigating, Anthea, and I will be available on mobile should you need anything further."

"Work less efficiently, Anthea. Be very thorough in your investigations," Sherlock added.

"Ignore him," Mycroft said, even as he ignored the glare he received from Sherlock. "Send me your report as soon as you have it."

Anthea raised a brow at this, looking between the two of them. "Of course, and I'll do my best not to interrupt your weekend any more than necessary." She paused for a moment. "I expect you'll want to leave before anyone else sees you out of a suit, sir, though it does look very good on you."

Mycroft blinked at her before finding his conversational footing. "Yes, well, thank you," he replied before walking off with as much dignity as he could muster, the sounds of Sherlock's laughter following behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on [Tumblr](https://fleetingdesires.tumblr.com) !
> 
> As always, kudos and comments appreciated. Love y'all xxx


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